2008-08-13
in the jungle
In writing, we seek something coherent, some way to fix our ideas with the solid power of words. Words are representative chucks, big hefty solid blocks standing for ideas, steadily confirming the thoughts behind them. We write our essays around specific theses; our paragraphs hail to a topic sentence; each verb pays homage to some noun. All of this is with the goal of communicating effectively, precisely, understandably. Language is meant for simplification, understanding, sharing. But the solid brick of certainty, in this particular case, is built upon a feigned foundation. The ideas behind the words in my tale lack coherency. It is babbled, jumbled, chaotic, and unwilling to be skewed by the ever-steadfast force of stable, technical, official, concrete, brick, real, calculated, deliberate�. Words.
If I find a way to tackle the natural, organic, unfolding jungle-like existence that life so wonderfully (and woefully?) is right now (and always?), sort it into neat piles where the significance and clarity of each stack is beautifully and faithfully apparent and accessible, I just might. Or I just might not. And until then, I probably won�t be trying to describe or explain any of �it� (pronouns are a cop-out, which is just what I�m looking for right now). I�ll give these words, easily: I�m running and reading philosophy. That�ll do for now.
leesah-likes at 2:04 p.m.